Midnight
by Equestrienne Dreams
Summary: "It's not good. It's very... very not good." On a night when a delivery goes badly wrong, only love can heal. Turnadette, Shulienne.


It was the crying that startled her first.

Shelagh barely caught a flash of curly blonde hair before two pairs of feet came pattering down the hallway, two dark heads bent in quiet communion before the blonde figure was led upstairs, a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"Mummy Shelagh?"

"Hush, Timothy," she said absently, her eyes fixed on the departing nurses, her hands clamped around a mug of Horlicks. "I don't know, but I'm sure we're about to find out."

Jenny came in then, her eyes red, and all Shelagh's focus snapped to the young nurse. The look on her face sent chills down Shelagh's spine, and a cold knot of fear lodged in her belly.

Dimly, she felt Timothy's hand slip into one of hers, and she held on as tight as she could.

"Nurse Lee." Somehow, praise the Lord, _somehow_ her voice wasn't shaking. "Nurse Lee, please."

"It's not good," Jenny said absently, her eyes fixed on something no one else could see. "It's very… very not good."

"Jenny, please!"

"Doctor came as fast as he could," Jenny went on, her voice still so distant, and the knot in Shelagh's belly grew tighter. _I'm so sorry, darling. It's twins, and the mother is losing ground fast, _Patrick's voice echoed in her ear.

_Do you want me with you?_

_With Sister Evangelina out on another call and Sister Julienne already there, you can't be spared from Nonnatus. But oh, how I wish you could!_

_I'll wait for you._

_You don't have to –_

_**I'll wait for you.**_

"Mrs Grey," Shelagh whispered, and everything went cold as Jenny bit her lip and nodded.

"I'm afraid so."

"How bad?" Shelagh hardly recognised her own voice.

"All of them." Jenny's voice was more sob than words. "Shelagh, we lost all of them."

Closing her eyes, Shelagh tilted her face to the sky and breathed, "Oh, help."

"Trixie was the first back," Jenny went on, fighting her own tears. "Sister Julienne and Doctor are on their way."

"And Trixie." Carefully, Shelagh focussed on everything but herself. "Cynthia's with her?"

"Yes." Scrubbing at her tearstained cheeks with the heels of her hands, Jenny sank into a chair. "I've been charged with making three mugs of Horlicks with – a little something extra in one."

"Whisky," Shelagh said instantly, rising and going to the stove. "I have some here, just in case. It's not as tasty as Advocaat, to be sure, but it'll help settle her nerves."

"Thank you, Shelagh." With shaking hands Jenny reached for the kettle, then nearly dropped it when it overflowed. Carefully, Shelagh steadied it, turning on the stove and sliding the kettle into place atop the burner.

"If you could add another mug, I would be rather grateful," came a shaking voice from behind them, and Shelagh whirled.

"Sister Julienne." Shelagh forced herself not to run to her, but nevertheless was at her side in moments. "Dear Sister, are you – " Abruptly she broke off, steering Julienne to a sofa and easing her down, then silently sank down next to her and looked the exhausted midwife in the eyes. "Oh, Sister."

The clear, normally lively green eyes were all but lifeless, deep lines carved into her face that hadn't been there that morning.

"Timothy," Shelagh said quietly, "please show Nurse Lee where my special stash is."

Timothy shot her a look of pure understanding, then took Jenny's hand and led her out of the room.

As the door closed behind them, Shelagh laid a gentle hand against Julienne's cheek, and was startled to feel the salt slick of tears under her hand. "Oh, Sister," she said again, choked this time, and for a few, brief moments, Julienne allowed herself to rest against Shelagh's shoulder, closing her eyes and crumpling completely.

For five endless minutes they stayed there, holding each other. "She died screaming," Julienne said raggedly. "She died screaming for her babies. We couldn't even give her the comfort of knowing they'd survived. We couldn't even give her that."

Behind them, a mug shattered into pieces on the floor.

"I'm sorry!" Jenny cried, bending to sweep the broken shards into a dustpan. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right." That was Timothy, setting the whisky bottle down. "Here, let me help you."

Silently blessing this strong, brave boy who clearly had things well in hand, Shelagh turned her attention back to Julienne, whose hand was curled in the fabric of Shelagh's nursing uniform.

"Shelagh," she said quietly, "you are off for the rest of the night. I'll get Nurse Lee or Nurse Miller to cover for you. There's someone who's going to need you far more than we do."

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, Sister," said Shelagh, her heart breaking, "but it appears you _do _need me."

"Yes." Her voice raw, Julienne sat up as if it hurt to do so, closing her eyes and biting her lip. "I do need you. But your husband needs you more." Uncurling her hand from Shelagh's uniform, Julienne actually managed a smile. "I have Sister Evangelina as well, or I will when she gets back – which shouldn't be too long now. He only has you, Shelagh. Please don't worry about me. Not right now."

Viciously Shelagh bit her lip so hard she nearly drew blood, the shock of pain just enough to drive back a fresh wave of tears; then, gently, so gently, she took Julienne's hand in her own. "God bless you, Sister," she murmured. "May He watch over you where I cannot."

In the softest of benedictions, Julienne kissed Shelagh's forehead. "My darling girl," she murmured. "He already is."

And then, though she'd heard no sound, Shelagh turned toward the entrance hallway, knowing who was standing there even before she saw him.

He was absolutely shattered, eyes sunken, hair a mess, clothes wrinkled, tie long since lost somewhere along the way; and when his eyes fixed on her, they were bright and starving and flooded with tears he couldn't shed.

Unaccountably, Shelagh flashed back to a day less than six months ago, on an empty English country road. He had come out of the mist like an angel brought to earth, the one living thing that could save her from her long months in the wilderness.

He looked at her now, she imagined a bit fancifully, the same way she had looked at him all those months ago.

As he had started to do, only to check himself because his path was not yet certain – and here was the difference, because hers very much _was – _Shelagh ran.

He caught her up in an instant, bag and baggage dropping to the floor unheeded as he swept her into his arms and lifted her clean off the floor. Clutching her close, he buried his face in her shoulder and just held on for all he was worth.

She clutched him back, her hands carding into his hair, her mouth pressing frantic kisses to his temple and forehead. He was shaking too hard to speak, but somewhere between his chattering teeth and the choked sobs he was trying to hold back, she heard her name spoken as though it was the answer to every prayer he never dared to think, let alone say.

"Yes," she gasped, though she was hardly aware she was saying it at all. "Yes, _mo chridhe, _yes, it's me. I'm here. You don't have to let go." Lost in herself and in him, she began to whisper in the old tongue of the Highlands, the Scottish Gaelic bubbling from her lips before she could think it. She whispered words of love, of blessing, of comfort in the old language that he barely knew and she had half forgotten, but that seemed, right now, to be the only words worth saying.

When the first rush of emotion was over he set her down, so carefully, as though she might break otherwise; but he still held her hand in both of his, pressing a kiss to the knuckles and holding it to his chest.

She was happy to let him, walking backwards down the hallway until they reached the kitchen, where Jenny and Timothy were dishing up mugs of Horlicks. Jenny added a healthy dollop of whisky to two, then gathered two mugs – one plain, one fortified – in her hands and left, calling over her shoulder that she'd be back when she'd delivered the Horlicks to Trixie and Cynthia.

Curious as to why Jenny had only fortified two – clearly, Sister Julienne was in desperate need of the boost, if only for tonight – she turned to the sofa, only to find that Julienne was – blessedly, thought Shelagh – sound asleep, curled with her face toward the high back like a child.

For the first time all night, Shelagh smiled. If Julienne could sleep, she would be all right.

It was then that Sister Evangelina came through the door, her eyes far away. She stopped in blank astonishment at the scene before her: Patrick sitting at the table, Shelagh curled in his lap, his lips pressed to her hair; Timothy and Jenny, on the other side, deep in conversation over their Horlicks; and Julienne, fast asleep on the sofa.

"What in Heaven's name – "

Jenny was up like a shot, leading Evangelina to a quiet corner and – with some help from Timothy – explaining in a rush of words the events of the last hour. Evangelina nodded slowly several times, raised an eyebrow several more, and finally smiled – as much as Sister Evangelina ever smiled, that was. She handed her bag to Jenny, who vanished out the door, only to return a minute later, empty-handed.

"Right," Sister Evangelina said briskly. "Here's how it's going to work. Nurse Turner, you are going to take your husband and son home. Nurse Lee, you will be on call the rest of the night. And I will take care of _that." _So saying, Evangelina nodded in Julienne's direction. "Go on, Turners. Shoo. Out of my kitchen."

Smiling wanly, Patrick eased Shelagh off his lap, then put one arm about her shoulders and took Timothy's hand in his free one. "Yes, Sister," he said, summoning a shadow of his usual sarcasm.

Jenny had settled with a pair of knitting needles and a ball of sky blue yarn, her needles cheerfully clicking away.

And Sister Evangelina…

Freed of her bag, Sister Evangelina walked over to the sofa, bent down, and carefully lifted a still-sleeping Julienne in her arms, cradling her as she would a newborn.

"Sister, are you sure – "

"I thought I told you to get out of my kitchen," Evangelina said, but there was no heat in the words. Her message, however, was clear: _I'll manage just fine. _

As Shelagh turned to go, she saw Evangelina looking down at her sister with the most peculiar mix of tenderness and worry on her face.

They made it home, if only barely; Patrick was so exhausted he could hardly see straight, but fortunately he knew the route to Kenilworth Row in his sleep. Shelagh kept a hand on him at all times, as much as for her sake as for his. Though he'd said next to nothing about the events of the night, he didn't have to spell out the toll it had taken on body and heart for her to see it clear as day. Julienne's brief description had been more than enough.

Now that they were home, Timothy ran out of energy all at once, clinging to both Shelagh and his father alternately for a long minute before he dragged himself up to bed and was fast asleep in moments.

In the quiet of their bedroom they stripped each other. On another day it would have been something breathless and delightful, every touch adding one more spark until the flames took them both. But tonight, their touches brought only comfort and peace. Only thin layers of cotton separated them as they slipped between the sheets, curling together as naturally as breathing.

"I couldn't save them," he murmured into her hair, his voice profoundly exhausted.

"I know."

His arms tightened about her. "Shelagh, it hurts."

She tucked herself even closer, impossible though it was. "I know."

"I couldn't bear it without you."

She tilted her face to his. "You'll never have to."

Wrapped in each other, they slept.

The nightmares came, as nightmares always do: floods of bright red blood, a mother screaming, children crying, and, over it all, the newborn's wail that should have come and never did. But the soft touch of her hand, the curves of her body against his, and her tender voice in his ear grounded him to reality, and when he broke free of the dreamscape he buried his face in her hair and wept without shame, his tears drenching her golden hair as hers soaked the soft cotton of his vest.

The steaming, whisky-fortified mug at Nonnatus had been hot enough to scald, but in the end, Shelagh herself was the only true warmth to reach him.

On the table at Nonnatus House, three mugs of Horlicks grew cold.


End file.
